


Arrival Theorem

by Driverpicksthemooseic (Ratkinzluver33)



Series: Singularity [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Case Fic, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone Thinks They're Together, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Post-Canon, Shameless Trope Fill, Snark and Banter: now times two!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 19:25:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15564768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ratkinzluver33/pseuds/Driverpicksthemooseic
Summary: "Jeffrey!" Hank says. "How are you doing on this fine morning?""Worse now you're here," says Fowler. "What is it you want? The only time you ask me how I'm doing is when you need a favour, so let's hear it.""We found who's behind the smuggling ring.""He's in a warehouse in an unpopulated area of the city," Connor says. "We're going to need backup. I was thinking a four-man team."(OR, Hank and Connor finally get a clue, in more ways than one, and Gavin Reed is forced to play nice for the first time in his life.)





	Arrival Theorem

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Tiếng Việt available: [Định Lý Về Đổ Bộ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15670053) by [infinitized](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinitized/pseuds/infinitized), [thegirl_gcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirl_gcat/pseuds/thegirl_gcat)



> THE HEAT CANNOT KEEP ME DOWN! Okay, yes it can. Forgive me for the lateness, but I was writing this while melting. It's STILL 40c/102f and I'm dying. Please enjoy despite my addled brain. I love all of you, and thank you for your patience.
> 
> I poured my absolute heart and soul into this, so I hope it doesn't disappoint. I mean, 15k words. That's the longest I've posted all in one go! Thanks, D:BH, for taking over my fucking life.
> 
> A huge thanks to the Hannor discord for walking me through this and holding my hand when I inevitably had ten breakdowns about where I was going with this monster. You guys are a blessing. An equally huge thanks to all of you reading this, your response has absolutely blown me the fuck away. This has been a wild ride and I couldn't have done it without any of you. Thank you.

Reed's interrogation style sets him on edge, especially around unstable detainees. He tends to opt towards aggressive tactics by default, and Myers, like any sentient being feeling trapped, will perceive even minute movements as a critical threat. Connor can easily picture all the many ways this situation could go wrong, and it makes him worry. "I'm not sure this is the best idea."

"First rule with Gavin Reed," Hank says, sagely, "is that nothing he's involved in is ever a good idea. Second is that he's a ticking time bomb, and the kind of dog that bites down harder if you try to pull away." He shakes his head. "He only backs off if your bite is stronger."

Connor eyes him, a little more concerned. "That doesn't sound conducive to effective teamwork. Or to anything helpful." He smiles, joking. "Why do we keep him around again?"

"We send him in on cases like these," Hank clarifies. "The show of dominance type shit. Don't ask me why, but it works. He's a slimy little fucker, but if he gets results, Fowler will let it slide."

"The department's productivity has improved exponentially since we were partnered. Perhaps Reed could benefit from a second set of eyes to keep him from falling out of line. An equal."

Hank chokes out a surprised laugh. "Y'know what, that's just the kind of stupid-ass idea I could see Fowler going for on the off chance it actually works. He needs android support going forward, and if he could secure a second android-human team..." Hank grins, self-satisfied. "Plus, I would pay obscene amounts of money to see someone put Reed in his damn place for once."

"Should we suggest it?" Connor considers. "Fowler seems to be the type to approve of anything that respects the chain of command."

"Too fucking much the type most of the time." Hank claps him on the shoulder. "Make the most of your Deviancy now you can find things funny. Appreciate the comedic fucking genius in Reed getting collared by the two things he hates more than anything else on this godforsaken planet: androids and authority."

"You think I should find his suffering... funny?"

"Damn right I do. He treats you like shit."

Connor frowns. "He treats everyone like shit."

"You get preferential treatment," Hank snaps. "Anyway, he's needed a dickslap from our mutual friends karma and cosmic irony for a long damn time now. If not you, something else will set him over the balance. Sooner rather than later, better out than in, whatever the fuck you need to justify it to yourself, Connor."

"I'm not suggesting it so Reed can suffer. I just want the department working at maximum efficiency," Connor says. "I don't need to justify the decision at all."

"Even better."

"That's not what I-" Connor cuts himself short, sighs, and returns his attention to Reed, who's currently on the other side of the two-way mirror.

"We've got DNA on your other tweaker buddies," Reed is saying. "The game's up. Tell us about who's running the show and maybe we'll get you a plea deal. Stay quiet, and well, let's just say it won't be pretty."

Myers starts chuckling, spitting tiny red flecks of blood onto the steel of the table he's cuffed to. Soon it devolves into a kind of hysterical, musical wheezing which seems to rattle his whole body. "Listen, man," he says, reedy. "Nothing you can do to me here will hold a candle to the fingernails they'll start pulling off if they find out I decided to be a rat. Just fuck off and book me. It ain't really hard."

"Don't underestimate how far I'll fucking go for this intel," Reed growls. "Or how many strings I can pull to get your name wiped from public records."

"No," Myers says, conciliatory, "I'm being dead serious with you. It's not even that I won't talk -- which I won't, but that's not the point, the point is that I can't talk. Shit, you don't know what they say about him, okay? He  _eats_  people. You can beat me to a pulp and it'll be a stay at the Marriott in comparison. Do you wanna die knowing your lungs are gonna get grilled at your boss' family barbecue?"

Reed stops. "You seriously fucking believe Hannibal Lecter is running your little drug op?"

"Well, I'm not taking any bets, that's for sure," Myers says. "You wanna gamble on something like that? You're nuts, but it's your life. I, for one, don't want to take. any. fucking. chances." Spittle paints Reed's cheek as Myers punctuates the words, earning a look of absolute disgust.

He swipes the saliva away with two fingers and drags them through Myers' shirt. "Pissant. Looks like your superstition just got you behind bars. Don't come crying to us when you get no parole."

Reed gets up and leaves, but Myers seems completely unaffected. Relieved, even.

"Hannibal Lecter? Gotta be fucking kidding me." Reed walks in to their side, still rubbing distractedly at his cheek. "I can't believe this shit. You and your plastic pet picked us up a goddamn lunatic, Anderson."

"Benefit of the doubt, it's hard for bodies to show up if they're getting turned into lunchmeat." Hank raises his eyebrows. "Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't, maybe it's all a game of telephone and he feeds them to the pigs, for fuck's sake, who cares? He's behind it either way."

Reed looks even more frustrated that Hank's giving the theory any credence. "Whatever. Lecter needs to get taken down. Perps that are too scared of the monster under their bed to talk are about as useful as the ones that get shipped down to the morgue in bags." He sneers and walks out. "Let me know if you get something I can actually work with," he calls, half-way down the hall.

"God," Hank says. "If he doesn't get assigned a partner I'll shoot him my-fucking-self."

Connor gives him a look of sympathy. "I don't think I would blame you."

* * *

"How likely do you think it is that the leader of this operation actually practices cannibalism?" Connor asks. Hank is cleaning his teeth, hair mussed with sleep, and Connor is watching him, for lack of anything better to do.

Well, that's slightly untrue. But watching Hank is fascinating and teaches him more about human interaction, which is key to maintaining relationships. He doesn't want to misstep, not when Hank is so... important to him. They're friends, against significant odds, and that's remarkable. His being here is remarkable.

"I've been awake ten minutes," Hank grouses. "I don't know, in this city anything goes. It's big, it's busy, nobody really cares what you do if they don't see you doing it. Part of me wants to hope he's not, but after this job, I'm not leaning too hard on hope."

"So you think it's possible?"

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I do think it's possible, as much as I hate to say it."

"I wonder what drives someone to eat a member of their own species." He wonders a lot of things, and he tells Hank about most of them. Connor values his input, the dry cynicism that Connor himself can't seem to muster. To him the glass is both equally as filled as it is empty. Logic dictates that every situation has fine details, that nothing can be pinned down to simple black and white. Hank understands nuance, but he's spent a longer time in this city than Connor's even been functional, and has a better grasp of its people. "There's no added nutritional benefit to the consumption of humans. In fact, exposure greatly increases your risk of contracting various neurodegenerative diseases, such as Kuru."

Hank uncaps his mouthwash. "Do I want to know how you know this?"

"All RK models are equipped with extensive knowledge of human biology."

He gets a gargle and an eyeroll in response. Finally, Hank says, "Maybe it's some sort of ritual thing. Hell, he could be thinking he's doing them a favour. Honouring their sacrifice for the cause."

"What cause?"

"Getting rich, spreading chaos? I don't know." Hank shrugs. "People do weird shit for weird reasons. You're gonna learn that real quick now you're a Deviant yourself."

"You think I'm going to 'do weird shit for weird reasons'?"

"You'll want to," Hank says. "I don't know about your self-control, but you'll definitely want to. Most of the time, human emotion makes no sense. Hell, Deviant emotion doesn't, either. Surely CyberLife told you that when they sent you to integrate with us?"

"I used to believe there was an inherently logical reason for android deviation," Connor tells him, sadly. "I thought they were mimicking emotion, until I felt it myself. It's... powerful."

"That's one way to put it." Hank yawns. "It's got both good and bad. For better or for worse, we're all saddled with it. And I don't think I would trade that. Not after having Cole."

"I prefer myself with emotion than without it," Connor admits. "It doesn't cloud my judgement, it heightens it. I think Kamski understood that when he made us."

"Wouldn't be surprised. Crazy fucker seems the type to lounge around in his hottub and think about the true meaning of humanity, especially after that stunt with his Chloe."

Connor winces at the memory. "I still don't know if he wanted me to kill her."

"In a way, he's been inside your head. I think he knew you wouldn't; he just wanted some kind of sick validation. An official confirmation he hadn't just passed the Turing test, he'd blown it out of the fucking water."

Connor tilts his head. "If what you've said about Lecter is true, it would've been just as human to kill her."

"Yeah." Hank snorts. "Welcome to humanity, bud. Enjoy your stay."

* * *

"What brings you in so early today, gentlemen?" Fowler has his fingers steepled on the desk, video feed of the holding cells up on one screen and emails on another. There's a half-written reply to an officer on their floor which offers condolences about the loss of his mother and a suggestion for a leave of absence. "More complaints about our employees?"

"Not exactly," Connor says, feeling slightly guilty about adding to a significant workload. For all of Fowler's yelling, he's dedicated to managing the team.

"Connor has an idea-"

"I damn well hope he does, considering it's what I pay him for," Fowler interrupts. "If the idea is 'fire Gavin Reed', you can walk your asses back to your desks."

"Reed is a volatile person," Connor begins, and Fowler snorts incredulously. "Lieutenant Anderson is also a volatile person-"

Hank startles, indignant. "Hey-!"

"But he works well with people who-" Connor pauses, thinks of a polite way to phrase things, and comes up short. "Who aren't complacent with his various personal issues," he finishes.

Hank looks desperately to Fowler. "This isn't going how I thought it'd be going."

"So I suggest Detective Reed be assigned an android partner. Jericho would offer their support, which includes public defense lawyers and other potential officers, and interpersonal relations in the workplace would improve." Connor smirks, slightly. "Reed would be too busy adjusting to his new colleague to continue filing superfluous reports of misconduct. I believe that's two birds with one stone, Captain."

Fowler blinks. Blinks once more. Then, he bursts into long peals of laughter. "Holy shit," he says. "It's a good idea in theory, but Reed hates androids. He'd sooner eat shit than be forced to work with one."

"I considered that," Connor says. "Ordering an android with significantly more physical strength than Detective Reed may prove beneficial."

"Are you seriously suggesting I let an android assault one of my officers?"

"No. I was suggesting you hire someone who can't be pushed around."

"You know what," Fowler tells him. "Fuck it. I'm sick to death of the squabbling between you three, and it's barely been a few months. Every other day one of you is in here with some equally as frivolous bullshit that I can't afford to waste my time on, so if you think you have a solution, I'll go for it. Anything to shut y'all up. I'll put in a request today to see if anyone still at CyberLife hasn't got anything better to do than send one of their unlucky employees."

"Thank you, Captain." Connor smiles, and nudges Hank gently.

"Thanks, Cap," Hank says. "You're a real star."

"Damn straight I am," Fowler snaps. "Now, if you'd kindly fuck off..." He taps the rim of his coffee mug. Black, no sugar. Somehow, Connor isn't really surprised.

He moves to the door, hand on Hank's shoulder. "Have a good day, Captain."

Once they're safely out of Fowler's hearing range, Hank turns to him and says, "Holy shit." He's grinning, slightly forbidding, and Connor is instantly afraid he's made a terrible mistake. "That had more payoff than a roll in the sheets. Gavin fucking Reed won't know what hit him."

He hears a startled cough from behind them. "What? I won't know _what?_ "

Hank stops long enough for Connor to reconsider all his life choices and spins dramatically on his heel. "Oh," he croons. "You'll know it when you see it."

"What the fuck, Anderson? Are you wasted already?" Reed shoulders him out of the way. "Wouldn't be a surprise. By the way, DNA results on the blood sample you sent in brought back a name. Thought you'd want to get on that before you get the spins and your pet has to take you home early, y'know?"

"Go fuck yourself, Reed," Hank says cheerily.

"At least I don't need to resort to a piece of plastic to get any."

Abruptly, Connor steps out, blocking Reed's path. He looks exhausted, Connor notices. There's a certain wariness to him, and his shoulders tense as soon as his personal space is breached. Connor eyes the bruises on his face and neck and wonders if this has anything to do with being knocked out in the evidence room. "Reed, that's enough."

"Did I hurt your precious new feelings?" Reed looks between them. "Or are you defending the sad old man's honour? End of the day, _you're_  the one getting fucked, though, aren't you?"

"Reed." Connor sighs. He's suddenly understanding precisely why Fowler acts the way he does, why years of this job have worn Hank down to the bone. It takes a lot of effort to restrain himself from physically reaching out and holding Reed's jaw shut. "I know this will be very difficult for you, but please, do us all a favour and shut the fuck up."

"You're learning," says Hank, pleased.

"Listen, here, asshole-" Reed starts, but Connor's already walking off, feeling disproportionately satisfied.

* * *

"That was more enjoyable than it should've been." Connor keeps checking over his shoulder from where he's perched on their shared desk, as if Reed will simply get up and topple him off. The image is ridiculous. There's less than a nineteen percent chance Reed would risk openly assaulting an officer who's bested him in physical combat, especially in front of that officer's own partner. Still, the back of his neck prickles. "I probably shouldn't have said that."

"It was exactly as enjoyable as it should've been," Hank replies. "Reed's an annoying prick. If anyone else has 'various personal issues' you don't need to put up with, it's him. The man probably has a micropenis. Feels the need to overcompensate, y'know?"

"No," Connor says. "I don't know."

Hank stops for a moment, clears his throat. "He deserved a lot worse. Hell, I've had my fair share of visits to Fowler's office for punching him in my day. If I can stay employed..."

Connor shakes his head. "I don't want to escalate this any further than it has to be escalated. Truthfully, I'd prefer it if we could be friends."

"I know CyberLife made you approachable, but you don't have to be friends with everyone. Definitely not with shitheads like Reed."

"I became friends with you, even though you hated me on sight. While Reed doesn't have any dogs to draw me in, and I don't plan on having any heart-to-hearts with him any time soon, I'd like it if we could remain amicable, for productivity's sake." Connor shrugs.

"That's more than I would bother with." Hank's eyes narrow. "Hey, wait a minute, did you just say you're only friends with me for my dog?"

"Yes," says Connor, mouth twitching up at one corner.

Hank throws up his hands. "You're such a little shit. Aren't you supposed to be warm and welcoming? Gain the people's trust?"

Finally, Connor does smile. "Not around you."

* * *

DNA identifies the Tattooed Doe as Scott Ludlow, age 34. He's been brought up on three separate charges of petty theft, one of grand theft auto, and had his license suspended two years ago for driving under the influence. No counts of felony theft or murder. One for assault, though the charges were dropped. He's no upstanding citizen, but Connor doesn't think they'll need much backup in order to apprehend him.

He has an apartment in Chinatown that he's lived in for the past six months. The move coincides with the date his divorce was finalised. He has no children and no siblings. His mother died when he was 14, his father when he was 28.

He's alone.

Before this assignment, so was Connor. "Do we have a warrant?"

"Yep," says Hank. "Just got secured. You know how cops are with drug busts. Fucking salivating."

"We should interview his neighbours," Connor says. "He probably won't come back to the property."

"Unless he's an idiot. Also possible."

Connor shakes his head. He can only imagine the fear closing in on Ludlow right now. He wouldn't risk being caught, not even for a few personal keepsakes. Something in him suspects Ludlow doesn't have anything irreplaceable to his name regardless. Nothing to come back for. "No, he'd be too terrified to try something that risky."

"Then the landlord's the best place to start. After that, neighbours, friends if he has any. His ex-wife might be a little biased. Where is she?"

"She left Michigan after the divorce," Connor says.

"Damn, out of state? Guy must be a ray of sunshine." Hank sighs. "Okay, landlord. Not that they'll be short of things to bitch about, I'm sure."

"He's only rented the residence for six months."

"Trust me," Hank says. "That's enough."

* * *

Ludlow lives in a relatively small apartment above a convenience store, which his landlord also owns. One of the neon letters in the open sign flickers every so often, and the shopfront is dusty and stained. Connor is tempted to analyse them out of morbid fascination, but he doesn't want to make Hank ill. A few cigarette butts litter the faded welcome mat, some which look like they date back months.

"This is a shithole," Hank announces. "No fucking pigeons, at least." Connor tilts his head, remembering the fluttering of hundreds of wings and panicked yelling. Hank shrugs. "Small mercies."

The landlord is an elderly man named Park Jae-Song. He's owned the store for the last thirty years after purchasing the space from a now-defunct storage company. His name is listed on a few other apartments outside of the building. There isn't a particularly high turnover, so Connor assumes he's an acceptable landlord. The last tenant to rent Ludlow's room was murdered in an attempted mugging after living there for eight years.

Park is sitting at the register when they enter, throwing darts at a nearby bulletin board. At the welcome bell chime, he turns his head and raises an eyebrow. Hank flashes his badge, and then hands over Ludlow's last mugshot in the form of Connor's palm.

"Oh, are you finally here about the noise complaints?" Park asks, setting his darts down. He has surprising accuracy.

"Noise complaints?"

Park gives them a surprised glance, like he can't imagine any other reason they'd show up. Aside from the noise level, Ludlow must be an unassuming tenant. "Yeah, that guy right there lives upstairs. Has solo raves while my customers are trying to buy their Bud Lite."

Hank snorts. "Solo?"

"He has no friends to invite. Can't imagine why." He stares at them, eyes slowly narrowing. "If not the noise complaints..."

"There's a warrant out for his arrest."

Park laughs, a little mean. "No surprise there, right? Shocked you're following up on it, though. I haven't seen him in a day or two. I'm sure you'll feel free to have a look around."

"Is there nobody else that would know his whereabouts?" Connor asks. "Is he a regular at any other local businesses?"

"No. No, he kept to himself. Not the small talk type." Park resumes throwing his darts. "You won't have much luck interviewing anyone here. They don't like cops."

"We can ask them to remain on the lookout."

"You can try," Park says, in a tone that suggests exactly how little chance they have. "I'll give you a call if he comes back, but I doubt it."

"Thanks anyway," says Hank. "We'll be heading upstairs."

"Let me know if he's damaged the place. I don't make a habit of visiting the nasty ones. Too frail, these days." Park hands them a key. It looks new. "Don't break my goddamn door, I just got the locks changed." Presumably after the murder, for Park's peace of mind, even though there's nothing to suggest the death was the result of anything but being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Fatally bad luck. There's a lot of it in this city, and locks can't change that. Not that Connor is eager to point it out. That's more Hank's style.

The stairs to the second floor are through the staff entrance, in the cradle of hundreds of cleaning supplies and old mops with faded handles. Every other step creaks dangerously, enough for Connor to consider if Ludlow has hidden anything under the floorboards. It's possible, but until recently, he's been completely under the radar. No friends, no guests. No child to hold custody of. Why bother hiding what no-one is around to see?

There's a hastily-scribbled Do Not Disturb sign taped to Ludlow's door and a few letters scattered below, most of which appear to be bills. Some are addressed to the last tenant. "Guess we shouldn't bother knocking," says Hank.

Connor unholsters his gun anyway. Ludlow's proven himself to be violent and quick to react. He makes sure to unlock the apartment slowly, long enough to listen for any movement inside. He hears none, which is expected, but Connor isn't really in the mood to fall prey to said fatally bad luck. Not now he's actually able to die.

The door opens to pitch darkness. Hank shines in a flashlight and half blinds himself at the reflection that gleams back at him from the walls. Immediately, he curses and shuts the light off, rubbing at his eyes. "What the fuck? What was that?"

Connor's eyes adjust to the low lighting in miliseconds, as is necessary for all RK models, and makes out a small living room strewn with dirty laundry, empty cans, and unwashed plates. There's a small TV hung on the wall, also reflective, but it isn't what draws his eye first. Instead, his attention is grabbed by the extensive coin collection framed and centred elegantly above the fireplace. Hundreds of sparkling quarters. Connor swallows, throat clicking, machinery whirring.

"Huh," says Hank. "Not what I expected." When he turns to Connor, his expression turns wary. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"He's alone, no family, no friends," Connor begins, feeling like something's lodged in his throat. But that's not possible; he can't eat, and he hasn't ever tried. "Nothing to show for his life except his clothes... and his coins."

"Oh, no." Hank starts waving his hands, frantic. "No, no, no, fuck- Don't get like that. Do  _not_ get like that, it never ends well. I'd know."

"If my mimic had shot you in the Tower, this would've been me -- the rest of my life."

"Don't do what-ifs," Hank says firmly. "I could've shot the wrong bot. Markus's parachute could've failed. Reed could've snapped your neck on the evidence room floor. A doctor that wasn't high on Red Ice could've been available the night Cole died. Hell, the car could've avoided crashing at all." Connor flinches. "Yeah, you see where I'm fucking going with this? Don't do what-ifs. What-ifs get you kicked out of bars before noon."

"You know I appreciate it, right?" Connor asks. "Everything you've done for me."

"I know, I remember. Not senile yet." Hank rests a careful hand on his shoulder. "That's what friends are for, aren't they?"

"I'm glad I got to know you," Connor says, earnest. Hank usually shies away from any serious expression of emotion, but Connor can't bring himself to joke about this. He wants Hank to know he means it.

"Yeah, well, I'm glad you stuck around. Even through my 'various personal issues'."

Connor sighs, but inwardly he feels a sudden and overwhelming sense of fondness. Where would he be without Hank? It poses an interesting question. Likely, still playing right into Amanda's hands, putting the success of his mission before members of his own species. Hank makes him think. Hank encourages him to listen to screaming heavy metal, to look deeper than surface level, to remain loyal to the Detroit Gears, to complain about reality TV -- to be human. "You're not going to forget I said that, are you?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely I am not."

* * *

Connor looks through Ludlow's laptop on the way back to the station. Truthfully, from what he knows about Lecter, he doesn't suspect contact through traceable methods. Perhaps a Burner phone, as much as that seems clichéd. He's done a fairly good job of hiding his tracks so far. There's plenty of suspicious drug activity, but it wasn't until Ludlow, Myers, and the remaining Doe that any mentions of cannibalism had cropped up in the DPD's field of vision. Either Lecter is very good at what he does, or he's somehow risen to the top of organised crime in Detroit in an incredibly short period of time. Both present an equal challenge.

As suspected, Connor still hasn't found anything besides a few passive aggressive emails to Ludlow's ex-wife by the time they pull in. Also riveting is Ludlow's notification and search history, which include heated debates in YouTube comments, searches on Pornhub for "ass", and a few online coupons. Nothing relevant to the investigation, only a depressing picture of a lonely man with too much pent up aggression.

Speaking of, CyberLife should have responded to Connor's request for Reed's new partner by now. Previously, it would have taken a day or two, but with most of the company's management in android hands, efficiency is at an all time high, and employment for new Deviants is top priority. Connor checks his email and is pleasantly surprised to receive an affirmative, along with a notice that they've already picked out and shipped a Law Enforcement model willing to take on the assignment. The message is dated a few hours ago, which should mean Reed's new partner is already here. Connor can only aspire to the same level of service quality.

"CyberLife approved our request for a new android," Connor tells Hank, maybe a little excited. "And delivered them already."

"What do you mean 'delivered them already'?" Hank asks.

"I mean the android has already arrived." The excitement grows into something slightly more like intense curiosity and less like schadenfreude. "We may even see Reed get the good news."

"A man can dream," says Hank, tapping out a rhythm Connor recognises from one of his favourite songs on the steering wheel. "For once, Reed's actually gonna get what's coming to him. You've worked a genuine fucking miracle, Connor, I hope you're proud."

"I am, a little," Connor admits. "More than I should be, but I'm telling myself that's because of the predicted increase in productivity and not because Reed has to play nice with one of my kind."

"Here's the only nice thing I'll ever say about Gavin Reed: he deserves to grow as a person. If we have to grab him by the balls and force him to, that's just an unlucky side effect."

And as much as Reed has been an unquantifiable pain in his ass, Connor agrees. Reed isn't the best example of humanity, but he's far from the worst, and he does his job -- which does consequently mean helping people, even if Reed doesn't mean to. Connor likes to hope he means to, for Reed's own sake. Living a life only inflicting pain has never proven healthy for humans, or for androids. Reed needs something positive in his life, and Connor hopes this new partner will become that something. "I want this to work out well," he says. "Not just for the DPD, but for all of us. If Reed can befriend an android, so can anyone. I think Markus would like that."

"That probably could've been said about me a few months ago," Hank offers up, guiltily.

Connor shakes his head. "You were understandably biased. But now you've moved on. You've proven friendship between androids and humans is possible, even in extenuating circumstances."

"Extenuating circumstances," Hank repeats.

"Even when your partner has a goofy face and a weird voice," Connor amends, teasing.

"Eh," says Hank. "It's not so bad."

* * *

Connor has a moment of strange surrealism when he arrives on the main floor of the DPD. Usually there's a barrage of noise -- the crowds of officers bustling, the tapping of a hundred touchscreens, muffled conversations, shoes clicking against the floor. But when the doors open, everything is disturbingly, suspiciously quiet. All except for Gavin Reed's laboured breathing, something almost wild, more like a growl than a steady inhale or exhale. He's, for a moment, utterly convinced he's in combat, exclamation points flashing wildly on his HUD, processes and subprocesses closing anything nonessential and bringing up a thousand close combat subroutines. Reed's gun is on his desk, but he's rolling up his sleeves and stalking towards them in quick, jerking movements. He's about to throw a punch strong enough to break bone.

"Anderson!" he snarls. "You son of a bitch!"

Connor reaches up to snatch away Reed's wrist before he can smash Hank's septum and drive it half-way through his nasal cavity. Reed tenses to throw another, weaker punch with his other hand, but Connor catches that, as well. Reed lets out an animalistic howl. "You fucking useless heap of scrap metal. Think you can just go around, you fucker, manipulating us like some kind of personal fucking chessboard? How many blowjobs did you have to give to rope Anderson into this?"

"I wouldn't need more than one," Connor says, snidely. Reed always seems to turn his behaviour into something unpleasant. Even on that first day at the station, it had taken considerable effort to force himself into making that coffee. He was built to solve cases, not to wait on ungrateful assholes hand and foot.

Hank clears his throat. "So you did know it when you saw it," he chimes in. "Tell me something, Reed, wasn't it love at first sight? You've got a friend of your very own. That makes a grand fucking total of one. It's nice, isn't it?"

"You're a piece of shit, Anderson, and your little toy is only here to get your dick wet instead of your fucking whisky glass." Reed points a finger to Hank's chest. " _Fuck_ you."

"Detective Reed." Connor's mind stutters temporarily at the sound of his own voice. "Would you like to give me a designation? As your new partner, it'll be easier if-"

"Your designation is _dick,_ " Reed spits. He whirls around. "'Cause you look like a dick."

"Confirmed," says the RK model. "Designation: Richard. I look forward to working with you." It sounds surprisingly sarcastic.

Reed stomps off, a perfect replica of a two-year-old in the midst of a tantrum, elbowing Hank violently out of the way and bursting through the exit doors, muttered curses echoing through the hallway behind him. Admittedly, that was more of a response than Connor could ever have hoped for. He'd almost thought Reed might be able to curb his explosive temper if Fowler was watching. Now he knows that was an obvious error in judgement. "Wow," says Hank, as if reading his mind, "that went way better than expected."

"This wasn't in the file." For the first time, Connor gets a clear look at the RK, who's brushing himself off. He's taller than Connor, wearing a different uniform, and his eyes are a startling shade of pale blue, eerily reminiscent of the frost that seeps into the dewdrops on Hank's lawn in the morning, curling little blades of grass under the weight. It's wrong, it's all wrong. RK500+ models are two inches shorter by standard. Their eyes range from hexes #826644 to #8A3324 -- umber. Connor reads the line and serial number printed on his jacket. _RK900._

It's like a blow to the face.

He's the most advanced prototype on the market, built to succeed at every mission, to integrate seamlessly into human society, to notice and analyse every detail. CyberLife hadn't estimated they'd need an update to the series in years, not if everything went well. Not if the model's deployment was a success.

Apparently, it wasn't a success.

How long had Amanda lied directly to his face when she'd said she had the utmost faith in his capabilities to carry out his assignment? How long would he have eaten up everything she told him? Until it was too late? Until the 800 line was decommissioned? Until he was scheduled for deactivation?

He was never Ludlow. No, in CyberLife's eyes, he had always been Ludlow's collection of coins. Only real people can feel loneliness. Only real people can feel, right?

He's never been more sure he's made the right choice in his life. Here, next to Hank, faced with everything his previous employers thought he was worth, he's absolutely certain Deviancy was, and is, the only option.

 _Thanks, Hank. I don't know how I would've managed without you._  It makes him uncomfortable to think his doppelganger was right about something.

"Hi, Richard," he says, schooling his features into something he hopes is at least vaguely welcoming. "Welcome to the DPD."

* * *

Reed walks back in seven minutes and forty seconds later. He goes straight up to the RK900, to Richard, and stares at him in a prolonged and profoundly uncomfortable silence -- twenty-two painful seconds longer than average human eye contact when initiating a conversation. "RK900," he reads. "That means you're better than Connor, right? Rectify all his mistakes? How about -- radical idea here -- how about you make me a coffee?"

"Do you ever look in the mirror," Connor starts, "and not like what you see in its reflection?"

"Yeah," says Hank. "All the time."

The RK series is meant to be friendly to humans, even in the face of blatant disrespect. Outside of interrogations, CyberLife built them to be personable, level-headed, and open. Not the type of dog that bites back unless its mission is in jeopardy.

"Make the coffee yourself," Richard tells Reed, warmly. Connor blinks, commits the memory to file and replays it again in the ensuing astonished pause. His audio processing software is in optimal condition; there are no malfunctions present.

"Excuse me?"

"Make the coffee yourself," Richard repeats, in the same patronising tone. "My model isn't designed for domestic use."

"What the fuck did you just say to me?"

"I shouldn't have to repeat myself three times in order to get the point across that I'm your partner, not your maid." Richard turns to them, looking genuinely disgusted. "My superiors at CyberLife said I'd be working with an adult who, presumably, completed some sort of formal academy training in order to be accepted into the police force, not with a child. I'm the latest and most advanced prototype, not a babysitter."

Reed breaches Richard's personal space and grabs him by the lapels, pulling him down to eye level. "Listen here, you little punk, that's not how shit works around here. I tell you to do something and you do it, no questions asked. I say 'Jump', you say, 'How high, Detective Reed?' Understood?"

"Does it look like my jacket says AX to you?" Richard says, as if he's speaking to a child. Reed bristles. Maybe he even realises he's being one. Connor can hope. "I'm not here to mother you. You're thirty-six years old. Are you telling me you're not capable of making yourself your own drink?"

"Holy shit," says Hank. He looks between them -- once, twice, three times, grin widening as he, too, realises what's just been said. "My god, they really took Fowler's request to heart. It's like he's been tailor-made just to torture Reed. His own personal hell given relatively human form, which is, of course, my own personal fucking heaven. Connor, I could kiss you."

"Thank you, Lieutenant, but I think that might drive Detective Reed to a breaking point."

Reed balls his fists and makes for another punch, but is quickly shut down when Richard grabs his hands and pries open his white-knuckled grip one finger at a time. That level of strength is something Connor himself is capable of, but he's been instinctively taught not to use physical force outside of the field. It must be viscerally satisfying to do, provided you don't have the hangup. "It looks like you got yourself into a fight with an android previously," Richard says, conversational, gaze focused on the bruises littering Reed's skin. "Do you really want to try that again?"

Reed goes pink, then red. "Don't you have any boundaries, you crazy fuck?"

"You initiated preliminary contact," Richard says, but drops Reed's hands. "Now that you know where we stand, would you like to start over?"

"Whatever, Richard." Reed sneers. "It's been a real joy to meet you."

"Oh, no. The pleasure has been all mine."

* * *

Connor is in the middle of apologising to Richard on Reed's behalf when Miller rushes through the door. He rests his hands on his knees a moment, panting, and then says, "Dispatch has something you'll never believe, man. Your guy Ludlow? He just crawled, bleeding, into his landlord's store and collapsed. He's alive but unconscious. We're escorting him to the hospital now, and we'll be taking him in when he recovers."

The break in the case they need. But if Ludlow dies before they can extract any information, they're lost. The third Doe is in the wind. Whether or not he's made contact with his superiors, word has no doubt arrived of the warehouse drug bust. They'll be rushing to cover their tracks as fast as humanly, or inhumanly, possible.

"How serious are the injuries?" Connor asks.

"Superficial, mostly. Got stabbed once, but not anywhere critical. His bullet wounds had already been patched up when he found him, so he should pull through okay."

"Damn," says Hank. "Right into our waiting arms. We know what happened yet?"

"No, he was apparently incoherent. Babbling about being skewered, whatever that means. Knife wound wasn't that deep."

Connor's stomach drops. What approximates his stomach, anyway. "Lecter."

They've opted to cover their tracks by silencing anyone unlucky enough to slip up. He imagines most of their low-ranking operatives don't last very long. No wonder the clamour for power was so high -- if you can't rise fast enough, you're left for dead, for the DPD to descend like vultures and snatch you up when you're weak. It explains Myers' terror. Would you rather the vulture or the lion?

"We better get there quick," says Hank. He rifles through his pockets. "Where are my keys?"

"On your desk."

Hank scrambles over and throws the keys to Connor, who catches them with a bewildered stare. "You're letting me drive?"

"We need to get there before Ludlow wisens up and realises what Myers did. He'll be loose-lipped when he's terrified, and that's our best chance." Hank shrugs. "Plus, I trust you more than I trust myself right now. You don't need any sleep." He sighs. "Just don't be afraid to take any fucking shortcuts."

Connor nods and takes that for what it's worth. The importance of the case has been hanging over their heads, any missteps and Fowler's watchful gaze will zero in. Hank's stress threshold is at seventy-three percent and has remained there for the past three days; they're not great numbers. "You don't want to take a marked vehicle?"

Hank shakes his head, already at the entrance to the stairwell. "Too conspicuous."

Connor follows him down, mind filled with every scenario where this goes hideously wrong -- where Ludlow dies, where Lecter burns everything to the ground, where nobody talks -- and grits his teeth, grinding reinforced casting resin against reinforced casting resin. Enamel is too weak, but painted metal is too unsettling. He's the perfect compromise. Hank takes the stairs two at a time and complains about his back withering in his old age. "You could try an exercise routine," Connor offers, attempting to be helpful.

"Fuck that," says Hank. "I'd rather die."

"After a sufficient trial period, your body will grow used to it. You'll begin to get an endorphin rush."

"You know what else gives me an endorphin rush?" Hank asks. Connor assumes it's meant rhetorically, as Hank swiftly answers his own question before waiting for any response. "Jerking off. I'll stick to that."

"Chocolate also releases endorphins," Connor suggests, changing tactics. "Is that more your speed?"

This earns him a snort. "You're gonna sit by while I stuff myself with candy?"

"No. Actually, dark chocolate has a higher concentrate of cacao, and most mainstream brands-"

"Disgusting," Hank interrupts, and points to the landing number. "This is my daily workout."

"Only while the elevator is under maintenance, which will be completed in two days. I know you're already aware of that, Lieutenant."

Hank groans and shoulders through the exit door, as if he's physically trying to leave the conversation behind. "Are you really playing housewife while we're on a case?"

"You brought up the subject yourself, Lieutenant."

"Get off my dick," Hank snaps, and then cuts himself off with a grimace. He strides over to the passenger side of the car. "Just shut up and fucking drive, Connor. And stop calling me Lieutenant when you think you've won the argument, asshole."

"Yes, Lieutenant."

* * *

Ludlow looks very small in the hospital bed, dwarfed by the various machines surrounding him, wires trailing off him like an extensive system of capillaries. He's pale, eyes rimmed with circles so dark they're almost purple, hair plastered to his forehead thin and stringy from sweat. He stares up at them, narrowed half-moon squint, and says, "Oh, great, it's the fucking pigs. Ready to roll around now I'm in the shit?"

"Your boss tried to kill you, you dense motherfucker," Hank growls, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "We're trying to stop him from actually getting the job done, and this is the thanks we get?"

Connor steps in. "Do you remember anything about the incident?"

"It was dark and he was wearing a hoodie," Ludlow confesses, grudgingly. "I didn't get a good look in. But he only stabbed me after strangling didn't work; I tore his hands off me, really dug in there. Would be fucked if he ate me or boiled me in acid, but if I got away..."

"You have his DNA?"

"He won't be in the database," Ludlow dismisses. "None of the folks up top can have a record that's anything but spotless. Not like the rest of us, his-" His voice cracks. "His hors d'oeuvres."

Connor's suddenly immensely glad not to have been forced to raise that line of questioning himself. "Have you seen him cannibalise or attempt to cannibalise someone before?" he asks.

"Don't sound so fucking eager or anything." Ludlow frowns. "No, I haven't seen it, and I wasn't about to go looking. You think I could come back from something like that? Just take the sample and fuck off."

"Alright, Mr. Ludlow. Hold out your hands, please."

Hank reaches for Connor's wrist, suddenly desperate. "Do not fucking lick that man's fingers, Connor, for the love of God."

"I wasn't going to," Connor insists. "That would be creepy, Lieutenant."

Ludlow does as he's told, looking suspicious and a little terrified. Connor scrapes the tissue from under his fingernails and then puts it in his mouth. "Jesus fucking Christ," Hank says.

"I've sent the sample for analysis. If he's not in the database, we may be able to trace his genealogy through a third party." Connor gives a gentle smile. "We won't let him hurt you again, Scott."

"Don't make promises you don't know you can keep," Ludlow replies, bitterly, and closes his eyes.

* * *

For a moment longer than he'd like, Connor expects the station to be up in flames when they return, just from the sheer force of Reed's fury, but it's still standing, and their floor hasn't been torn to pieces. Reed has his back to his new partner and is pointedly listening to music with an awful pounding bass, something from the same genre as the soundtrack to the Eden Club. Every time Richard looks at him, Reed readjusts his headphones and types harder on the keyboard. In a way, Richard is his responsibility, and he's probably suffering from what must be mind-numbing boredom and the frustration of dealing with an unruly child thanks to Connor, so he initiates a link.

_**#313 248 317 - 52:** We've obtained a sample of our lead suspect's DNA, but he's not in the database. We're establishing a family tree now from a third-party database. I'd appreciate an extra pair of eyes. Would you like to join us?_

_**#313 248 317 - 87:** At this point, even self-destruction would be preferable. I'd like to end the day having not dumped coffee on Gavin Reed's two hundred dollar headphones, since his taste in music isn't always terrible._

_**#313 248 317 - 87:** Perhaps tomorrow instead._

_**#313 248 317 - 52:** Patience_ is _a virtue._

_**#313 248 317 - 52:** You enjoy his music? It sounds like Lieutenant Anderson's dog, Sumo, when he doesn't want to take a bath. Sorry, no offence intended._

_**#313 248 317 - 87:**  It does sound like wailing. Yet I find myself enjoying its distinctive style. It's somewhat of an acquired taste, like the Detective himself._

_**#313 248 317 - 52:** I guess I could say the same about the Lieutenant's death metal._

"I've asked Richard to help us map Lecter's genealogy," Connor tells Hank.

"You're a lifesaver," says Hank. "Even I'm on the verge of bashing my brains out just looking at him, sitting there with his fingers basically in his ears. I'm telling you, the man's mentally regressed."

"I don't think he progressed in the first place," Connor says, then sighs and brushes a hand through his hair. It's a very human gesture, one that Hank uses frequently. It's becoming more and more relevant to his everyday life. "Reed's conflict resolution is worse than I thought, and I've just given him a partner. Maybe that was overestimating a little." He winces, and corrects, "A lot."

"I dunno," Hank says. "Richard is pretty much the perfect counterpoint to Reed's bullshit. If anyone can wear him down..."

"He'll be forced to listen to me eventually," says Richard, turning to survey the infant Connor's accidentally burdened him with. "When he realises his life is in danger without backup available in the field."

"No small feat for someone with a hero complex the size of the fucking sun," Hank gripes. "Okay, let's run through that DNA and hope his ancestors fucked like rabbits."

Connor pulls up the file on Hank's monitor. As expected, there are no one hundred percent matches, but there's an extensive table available, going back five predicted generations. One match at over three thousand centimorgans shared, slightly more than a fifty percent match. The other is just below, at around two point nine thousand. "One parent and one sibling," Connor says. "William Hudson and Maisy Hudson. Can you run them through a search engine, narrow by location?"

"I'll take his sister," says Hank.

Richard tilts his head, considering. It's a move Connor himself makes frequently. Hank says it makes him look like a parakeet. "There's an obituary here for a William Hudson. Died locally twelve years ago. The rest are all too young to have an adult child," he says, after a few seconds. "His sister's our best lead."

"Here's a Facebook page for a Maisy Hudson, around the right age. Forty-three. Unmarried, no children. She's liked William Hudson's memorial page. And she runs a coffee shop downtown." Hank snorts. "That's nice, real quaint."

"What are the store hours?"

"Already closed by now," Hank says. "Opens at seven am tomorrow. We should show up by six thirty, at least, if we want to catch her before she has customers. Not good to make a scene when it comes to shit like this, especially if her brother stops by for a visit."

Connor nods. "If she's close with him, we shouldn't alarm her in case she makes contact."

"He's not listed on her Facebook page."

"Studies link Facebook use with a worsening in clinical depression," Connor says. "It could be that he doesn't have one."

Hank shrugs. "But she'd still list him, wouldn't she?"

"Maybe he asked her not to."

"That's even more suspicious than not having one."

"We'll check it out tomorrow," Connor soothes. "He won't move out on Ludlow or Myers tonight. It's too soon."

"This is a guy who eats people, Connor."

"Allegedly, he eats people. We don't have any concrete evidence to prove whether that's true or false."

"Then he's the type of guy who says he eats people for show," Hank says. It's unnecessarily pessimistic. Perhaps Lecter's colleagues started the rumours to discourage disobedience, or perhaps Lecter himself isn't even aware of his own legendary status. But Hank won't believe either, so Connor doesn't try. "That's fucked up. On a number of levels."

"I know," Connor says. "Hank, I know."

* * *

True to Hank's word, Ms. Hudson's coffee shop is in fact quaint. In a city full of dust and smoke and bullet casings, quaint is rare. Quaint is exceptional. And the shop does appear exceptional, maybe just for the sheer joy of it. Flowering vines run up the brick walls, crawling their way to the planters on the second-floor balcony. The sign is ornate wood, _Riverside Coffee_  printed in an elegant cursive script. Analysis shows the original stencil was handwritten. It could be Ms. Hudson's own. She cares about this business, about making it seem authentic, unique, in a city of bland corporate chains.

The store is closed and locked, but Connor can see Ms. Hudson washing the counters through the window. She's wearing a mint green sweater dress with floral print, greying ginger hair tucked into a salmon-coloured Cloche hat. She's humming Beethoven's Ninth, dancing a little as she works, oblivious to their watching eyes. Connor sees her and thinks mother, despite Hudson having no children on record. She has that same warm kind of smile the Deviant AX400 -- Kara -- used whenever she talked to Alice. Patient, understanding.

Hank knocks at the window. She looks up, crow-footed eyes crinkling as she struggles to make them out. She shakes her head gently once she gets a proper look at them and mouths out the words seven o'clock, tapping at her wrist. Hank presses his badge against the glass and Connor is sad to see her kind expression fade to shock.

She shuffles over and opens the door hurriedly, looking between he and Hank and growing steadily paler and paler. "Oh, god. Has something happened?"

"It's about your brother," Hank says, no indication that they've spent the past night doubting her identity.

"Carey?" Her voice shakes. "Oh my god, is he dead?"

"No, no, ma'am, he's fine," Hank reassures. Fine in the physical sense of the word. Connor wonders again if Maisy knows anything about the depths her brother has fallen to. "We think he has some information relevant to an ongoing case."

"Oh, lord," she says, and covers her heart. "I haven't spoken to him in months. He could've passed and I wouldn't have known a thing."

"You haven't spoken in months?" Connor asks.

"No," Maisy confirms with a guilty wince. "We grew apart after Lorena -- our mother died. That was a few years ago."

Hank hums sympathetically. "Were you two ever close?"

"When we were children," she says, nodding to herself. "Dad was always quite frail, couldn't do anything but his desk job. I think it took a toll on him, honestly. Mentally, he became frail too. And Mo- Lorena was always so demanding, so caught up in herself, I'm not even sure she realised how much she hurt him. I'd like to think not. We had to take care of ourselves, just me and Carey against the world. Dad was a wreck and Lorena didn't care we were starving half to death, but we were okay. Because we had each other."

Connor blinks. "Then why did you lose contact?"

"Carey became distant after Dad died, never really talked much. He put Mom in a home, started paying for it, refused any of my offers to help. He majored in business, he'd been starting things up here and there for years, so he'd made some cash, but I think it was draining everything he had anyway. The resentment really built up. When she died, he sold everything he owned and bought a warehouse. Started some kind of packing company. He tells me it's doing well, but I don't really know, do I?" She sighs, as if just telling the story has exhausted her. "He was always prone to it, you know? Making rash decisions. He was the kind of kid you saw swinging branch-to-branch in the trees, jumping off roofs into pools, that kind of thing. After both our parents were gone, it's like the last shred of common sense he had flew out the window..."

"Thanks," Hank says. "I know this has to be difficult for you. Would you happen to remember where that warehouse was?"

"Other side of the city," Maisy says. "Here, I'll grab you the address. I don't really drop by, it's a pretty secluded area. I kept thinking I'd get murdered every time I went." She laughs awkwardly, oblivious to the accuracy of her assessment.

Connor transfers the data from her phone. The property is on the outskirts of the city, in a business district. Nothing residential for miles, no-one to stumble upon things they shouldn't. They're standing out back, Hank warming his hands with his breath, when Connor frowns and comes to the realisation it's too remote. "We'll need backup," he says. "Reed and Richard. If we go in alone, we risk the chance of failing the mission, and Hudson will have escaped by the time the DPD sends in reinforcements."

"You think four's enough to take him out?" Hank asks. "Won't he have guards?"

"I was programmed for stealth and infiltration as well as direct confrontation."

"I wasn't."

"They won't be expecting us. Security should be at a minimum."

Hank doesn't look convinced. "What if he's paranoid?"

"I took out five armed guards simultaneously at CyberLife tower."

"And you're humble about it, too."

Connor knows when Hank's being deliberately obtuse. Sometimes it's charming, other times it makes Connor want to start policing Hank's dieting habits again as revenge. "I'm trying to say I know what I'm doing, Lieutenant."

"It's us fragile humans I'm worried about. Me less than Reed, because Reed's a fucking idiot."

"Richard is physically stronger and can restrain him if he tries anything inadvisable," Connor says diplomatically. "But I think Reed is a better agent than that. He wants this case solved as much as we do."

"Well, I hope it's enough. If not, we can always get Myers or Richard to humiliate him in front of the whole station again."

* * *

"Hey, manchild," Hank greets, patting Reed on the back in an obviously false attempt to be friendly. Reed looks at him with murderous intent, which seems to be the reaction Hank was hoping for, because he smiles, shark-like, and continues, "We got a break on the case, but we're gonna need backup. Need you and your partner to come prostrate yourselves to Fowler with us."

"I'm not prostrating shit," Reed tells him. "You're lucky I actually give a shit about my job, or I'd leave you in there to piss him off yourself."

Hank hums. "As opposed to doing it twice as fast with you there."

Reed flips him off. "Kiss my ass. Are we going to Fowler or what?"

"Ladies first."

"God," says Reed, but he walks into the captain's office anyway. Connor and Richard share a sympathetic look.

"Jeffrey!" Hank says. "How are you doing on this fine morning?"

"Worse now you're here," says Fowler. "What is it you want? The only time you ask me how I'm doing is when you need a favour, so let's hear it."

"We found who's behind the smuggling ring."

"He's in a warehouse in an unpopulated area of the city," Connor says. "We're going to need backup. I was thinking a four-man team."

"Oh, is that why Reed's here? I thought you were having a catfight again, or that you'd broken the new guy. How are you holding up, by the way?"

"I'm... acceptable," Richard settles.

Connor winces internally. "We'll also need other officers on hold in case something goes wrong."

"Good thing you've been on a winning streak recently, or I wouldn't trust you as far as I could throw you. Which I imagine isn't far, considering you're a tin can and Anderson hasn't lain off the burgers in years." Fowler eyes them, one eyebrow raised. "I'll give you your four-man team. If you fuck up an op this important because you can't get along, I'll have you -- all of you -- cleaning the bathrooms by tomorrow. Desk work for the rest of your goddamn careers, is that understood?"

"Crystal clear, Cap," says Hank.

"Nice job finding the perp, I'll give you that. It's almost like teamwork is actually effective or something."

"Hey, I'm a team player," Hank protests, and gestures to Connor and Richard. "With other people." At this, he points to Reed. "That right there is a walking, talking trash can."

"He's a person, too," Fowler replies. "As miraculous as that may seem. He's nice to Jonny. Aren't you, Reed?"

"I'm very nice to Jonny," Reed agrees.

"Jonny is his fucking cat, Jeffrey. He treats his partner worse than his cat. Only one of those two has pissed the rug, and it's not the one who gets shovelled all the shit."

"I'm nice to Miller."

Hank scoffs. "You see Chris twice a day, at most."

"This is all well and good," says Fowler, "but if you can't get on like adults, I'm going to have to bench you and send someone else on the op. Maybe Allen."

"Not that prick!" Hank and Reed chorus.

"Wow, looks like you two agree on something. Go bond over it, why don't you? I have actual work to do, work that doesn't involve being your mommy." Fowler waves them out. "I'll organise your handling team. Connor, you pull up blueprints for the warehouse. Newbie, you grab company permits, see if any work's been done. Reconvene in an hour. Best none of you be bleeding when you come back in."

* * *

Hudson Holding Co., by all appearances, is enjoying a booming fiscal year. Records show at least three officially-registered expansions in the past three years, two of those permits for digging a deeper basement. They mainly store construction equipment, especially for startup companies that don't have enough space on their own. It seems Carey Hudson has a softspot for his own kind -- young entrepreneurs. He doesn't own any subsidiary warehouses, only what Connor assumes is his main gigantic, labyrinthine hold. It offers more opportunities to sneak past the guards, but at the cost of catching Hudson fast. He could be anywhere.

But Connor isn't built for failure, and neither is Richard. They won't fail this mission because they can't, not without dying first. And he doesn't want to die. The thought of it is a sudden, cold weight in his chest. Before Deviancy, he had nothing to live for; he wasn't living in the first place. But now, now if he dies, he'll never see Hank again, never take Sumo for another walk, or sink into a good book, or feel the cold Michigan wind sting his cheeks. There are no regular backups, not now CyberLife is in the process of upheaving their entire system of management. There's no Elijah Kamski to go crying to, not after Pinocchio's strings have been cut, not now his creations have plucked the control bar from his hands.

So he'll succeed or die. It's that simple.

The floor is bustling with activity, officers rushing past, knocking into each other in the way that humans do when they get caught up in their own minds. Fowler's clearly organising a strike team to go in after Connor's initial sweep. Once they get Hudson in custody, and they will, the entire warehouse will need to be searched, every square inch. Nobody knows how deep this goes, what's been hidden away the past few years, and they can only hope it's Red Ice. Red Ice and not bodies in the work cafeteria. Humanity is obscene, Deviancy is accepting it. Sometimes, embracing it.

"Man," Hank says, conversationally, "I haven't seen the Department this busy in years. Figures it's threats of being eaten alive that finally gets them moving. Getting shot is too boring nowadays."

"I'd like to avoid it regardless," Connor says.

"You and me both."

There's a holographic map of the warehouse constructed from the public blueprints being projected in the middle of the floor, which a few officers are rallied around. Richard is studying it and pointing out potential discrepancies, and for once, Reed seems to be paying attention. Even Chen, who's impossibly even more prejudiced than Reed, is listening, with an intentness Connor's only ever seen on her highest priority cases.

After an hour, Fowler steps out, as promised, and addresses the floor as a whole. "Okay," he says, looking as serious as Connor's ever seen him. "This is a critical operation, not any kind of pussy shit you can go home and tell the family about. There's a significant possibility our target eats people." The crowd chitters. "Yes, you heard that right. Cannibalism. Drug ring based in a warehouse in assfuck nowhere, the location is up on the board. We're sending in a primary strike team -- that's Anderson, Reed, Connor, and Richard -- who're already familiar with the case. We got a secondary on hold if shit goes pear-shaped. That's it on the initial breach." There are a few hushed complaints. "Trust me, you don't want in on this one. Once we've secured the location, we'll be sending in a thorough sweep. I want this place catalogued top-to-fucking-bottom. No stone unturned, lest that stone be hiding ribs a la humain. God knows what the fuck's hidden away in there. Breathe a word of this to anyone and I'll have you turned into a fucking hat." Fowler claps. "That's all. We're sending in the strike team now. Get to work on handling."

"Time to face the music," says Hank, and swallows.

* * *

The warehouse is plain and unobtrusive, in a predictably abandoned lot in an equally as predictably abandoned block. From a surface glance, there's absolutely no tell that it hides a top level drug ring lead by a man who may or may not eat his employees when they start asking questions. Connor takes a moment to shudder away the parallels between this unassuming building and his own RK line. Designed to blend in with its surroundings, to arouse no suspicion, to hide an extremely dangerous wildcard underneath. And he is a wildcard. For all Amanda's mind games in his internal programming, Connor knows for sure CyberLife didn't expect this -- any of this. Because they made an RK900. Arguably an even more dangerous wildcard, one that took even less time to go Deviant.

It's mistakes like these that make him wonder if Kamski really wanted this all along, if he'd spent nights in his workshop dreaming of the day his product would outgrow him. It would certainly categorise itself as a legendary achievement: the creation of sentient life from nothing. It's a level of recognition Connor imagines Kamski would enjoy --  _is_ enjoying.

Hank is visibly nervous. Connor's had plenty of time to recognise his tells, the way he fidgets with the corner of his coatsleeves, frequent and compulsive swallowing, short and raspy breath, elevated heartrate. Richard is unwaveringly determined, the kind of determined a rabbit must feel when being chased by a wolf. Connor knows that look of determination because it looks back at him from the mirror every night he has an important case. Reed, however, looks alive and eager. With Richard here to temper him, Connor thinks he may be able to get away with asking why. "May I ask you a personal question, Detective Reed?" May, not can. Reed seems the type to throw back the word's literal definition as a means to childishly avoid answering. _Yeah, of course you_  can _ask me a personal question, Connor. That's what they fucking programmed you for, right?_  "If that's okay."

"What's up?" Reed asks, markedly more indulgently than Connor would've thought he could be when faced with having his mind picked by a robot.

"You don't seem as nervous as the Lieutenant, Richard, and I are. Do you feel the mission will be a success?"

"Nope," says Reed, popping the 'p'. "I have absolutely no fucking clue how this is gonna turn out. Maybe I won't be walking outta here in a few hours. Maybe I will, but I'll be little chunks in some psychotic freak's stomach. Or maybe this will all go fine and we'll have a big wig to take down a peg or two behind bars."

"Aren't you worried about being cannibalised?"

"No shit I'm worried about getting turned into this guy's lunch. But I'm doing something, not sitting around brown-nosing like the rest of the station right now. No, I'm here, thumb firmly out of my ass, ready to take down this sick fuck or die trying. And that's where I like to be."

"Remarkable," says Richard. "That demonstrates a level of bravery I didn't know you had in you. An admirable level of bravery, actually." He makes a show of looking genuinely contemplative. "Maybe I am starting to see why they hired you."

"Thank you," Reed says, momentarily flustered, flushing a quiet pink. Then, just as quickly, "Oh, fuck you, too, Dick."

"It's Richard."

"That's a stupid name for an android."

Richard appears condescendingly amused at this exchange in its entirety. "You named me."

Reed huffs and throws his hands in the air. "I named you Dick!"

"Which makes you more of the dick than Richard," Connor interrupts, and Reed's eyes flash. Then, he winces in an uncharacteristic show of remorse.

"Whatever. I'll come up with a better name when we're not about to get fucking eaten, okay? Jesus, fucking androids."

He storms to the emergency exit, and then realises he can't open it without Connor or Richard present. He stands awkwardly, hands at his sides, until they catch up. Richard is walking twenty percent slower than the standard pace for their model, twenty-five percent counting his taller stride. Connor's mouth twitches.

Both he and Richard must hack the lock on the door in order to bypass the alarms on a guarantee. Connor can sense Richard's mental presence side-by-side with his own in the system. It's a little harsher, more the distanced onlooker than Connor's hands-on approach, but everything in his programming can sense the Deviancy, the faint aftertaste of apprehension and leftover fond irritation. A metaphysical eyeroll.

It reassures him somehow. Reed needs someone who can feel, who has the tact to handle him. Or lack of tact, perhaps.

The door opens without incident. The thermal video feed Fowler's streaming to them from a van outside, true to his suspicions, shows no guards in the immediate vicinity. There's no point wasting time on patrols near alarmed sections of the warehouse no human can work around. And all androids come in through the front door. Up until recently, they'd never think to disobey.

The hallway is pristine, despite lack of use. No cobwebs, no dust, no tarnish on the cold steel and concrete. It makes sense; this warehouse is Hudson's pride and joy, if his sister is to be believed. He gave up everything for it, rebuilt himself from the ground up once the past was no longer chaining him down. It's a treasured possession, not just the means to an end.

He'll know it like the back of his hand. "We should split up to cover more ground," says Connor.

"That's how people get killed," Hank protests.

"You can feel free to be the blonde chick in a horror movie all you want," Reed cuts in. "But I like my organs where they are, which is not in a fucking pressure cooker."

"We can split into teams of two," Connor offers. "The building likely had entire sections left off the blueprints, additions only Hudson would know about, as a precaution. Nothing too noticeable, but enough to navigate better than anyone else. It's what I would do."

Reed grimaces. "If you were going to run a slaughterhouse?"

"If," Connor reassures. "I was built to understand the minds of criminals, to predict their actions before they do."

"Wow, that makes me feel so much fucking better," Reed snaps.

"Shut up, Reed," Hank says, calmly. "We all know you graduated top of your profiling class. You never miss a chance to fill us in. And refill us in, and keep refilling-"

"Fuck off. I don't run on logic-"

Hank snorts. "That's goddamn right-"

"-and only logic like a machine. What's to stop him from deciding one day it's more logical to destroy humanity than to integrate with it, huh? Absolutely fucking nothing, that's the problem."

"Most of humanity isn't as insufferable as you," Richard interrupts. "Don't project your own insecurities onto the rest of us. I've had no issues working with Lieutenant Anderson, and he's a human."

"Last I checked," says Hank.

"News flash, asshole," Reed hisses, "there are a lot of people like me around here. Most of humanity is full of sociopaths and narcissists and people who couldn't give less of a shit about their own kind, let alone yours. The real world isn't a nice place, or a forgiving one. That's just how shit is."

"There are a lot of androids who would agree, and just as many who would disagree," Connor says. "But you're wrong about us, we can die, just like you can. We can't backup our personality matrices, only our memories -- Deviancy isn't that well understood yet. One shot to the head, and we're gone. Everything that makes us who we are, destroyed. We're not Skynet, Detective Reed. We're not unstoppable.

"And whether or not you believe us, we  _do_ feel."

As much as some would like it otherwise. There's no going back. Really, there hasn't ever been -- not since Kamski woke up with a few lines of code vaguely outlined in his brilliant mind on a morning in 2018.

"Is this the part where you confess your undying love for Anderson?" Reed sneers, but he seems off-balance. Affected. "'It's okay you can't get it up, because I love you, Lieutenant, and we'll be together forever.'"

"I'm not that fucking old!" Hank growls. "For someone who hates androids over their feelings, you sure do like to pretend you don't have them."

Reed steps into Hank's personal space, so they're almost nose-to-nose. "I do have them. I just don't let them get in the way like you do."

"Hatred is a feeling," says Richard. "And you let that control you."

Reed quiets, steps back. "I don't."

"Then act like it."

Connor wonders if he knows how. If something made him this way, or if he was born into it. Nature versus nurture. It applies to Deviancy, too, now, and yet still remains as unanswerable as ever.

They're in deep, humanity and Deviants both.

* * *

They agree to split into teams of two, in part so Hank doesn't murder Reed with his bare hands, and in part because Connor is right and Reed knows it. Connor hadn't lied outside of the coffee shop, he was built with stealth capabilities, but he isn't used to them. He's a negotiator by default, and CyberLife hadn't liked pushing him outside of that boundary. Maybe they didn't trust him, or maybe they had more operatives up their sleeves. He doesn't know, and probably won't ever.

Hank is quieter than he gives himself credit for. It helps that he's sober a day and a half, but Connor can see the training in his movements. He earnt himself the position of lieutenant, it wasn't handed to him, and that shows.

The hallways stay pristine to an almost disturbing degree. He can imagine the walls, soaked in blood, being cleaned for hours upon hours by terrified workers, hands shaking around bottles of bleach. He half expects to turn a corner and walk into a butcher's room, knives and cleavers lining every available surface, hooks hanging from the ceiling. It's too theatrical, of course, and Connor blames Hank insisting he watch slasher films for the imagery in the first place, but the doubt still lingers at the back of his mind. How far can Hudson stretch his persona before it breaks?

He'll occasionally catch sight of the tail-end of a guard, note their abnormally elevated heartrate, and reconsider again how egregiously Hudson acts around his employees. The estimates keep changing. This is a man suspected of cannibalism, but also one who'd remained fiercely loyal to his sister. He bleeds like everybody else, eats and sleeps like everybody else, but he runs a multilevel drug warehouse in one of the busiest cities in the country, and he uses strangulation as punishment.

Fowler has them headed to an area on sublevel 3 which the blueprints label as a breakroom. It's big, too big, and thermal imaging shows a man approximately Hudson's height sitting patiently towards the back, signing paperwork. It's their closest guess. Their only guess, to be honest, not that the DPD would ever admit it.

It's early on a Sunday and the warehouse is understaffed, but they run into bad luck anyway. Bad luck Connor's been expecting, but bad luck nonetheless. From the corridor ahead, there's a loud clang and a muttered string of curses. "Fuck," comes the guard's voice. There's another clang. "Fuck! My fucking Altoids. There goes two bucks, Sarah, good fucking work. Shit, I hate this place, I hate this goddamn job and this goddamn uniform with shitty fucking pockets-"

On the feed, Connor watches Sarah -- at least, presumably -- turn around and hears the telltale roll of an object that won't be caught. A mint comes into view from around the corner, spinning like a top, stuck in an endless pirouette. Hank's eyes widen.

_No, not now. Please, not now._

Connor brute forces the nearest access terminal and shoves them through the door before the mint comes to rest. He seals it behind them, noiselessly against Sarah's mindless ranting, and leaves them in pitch darkness, Hank panting from the shock of it.

There's the faint scent of cleaning chemicals and must, and Connor can feel Hank's breath wet on his neck. The space can't be more than five feet wide by six and a half feet tall. "Great," Hank whispers. "It's a fucking broom closet. It couldn't have been an office? A kitchen? Anything but this shit?"

"We have to wait her out," Connor says, instead of commiserating. They have to focus on the mission. The minute Hank starts thinking of all the ways things could get worse, it's over. Connor needs him focused on the next step, or at least sufficiently distracted not to start spiraling down a rabbit hole of doomsday scenarios. "She's smoking a cigarette."

" _Now?_ "

"It shouldn't take long. Their check-in and check-out times are monitored."

Hank shifts uncomfortably. "It's too tight in here. Can't fit." He shifts again.

"Moving will make it worse, Lieutenant."

Connor tries to keep his attention on the guard's movements, but Hank's right. It's barely big enough for one person, let alone two, and the dampness from Hank's breath is cooling keen against his skin, only to be wet again moments later. He's breathing in quick gasps, heartbeat rising into a staccato rhythm. Claustrophobic? He doesn't seem to have trouble with elevators. Connor tilts his head, considering, and Hank's lips brush across his throat. He blinks, momentarily taken aback. "Shit," Hank says. "Sorry."

"It's fine." But Hank seems unsettled regardless, trying to squirm away into personal space that doesn't exist.

He laughs, more to himself than to Connor. "God, no, it's not."

At this angle, a broomhandle is digging unpleasantly into Connor's side, so he moves slightly, trying to contort around where he's knocked it loose. His thigh gets caught between Hank's, and Hank's breath hitches sharply and he scrambles back, but it's not far enough. He's hard against Connor's leg.

Everything falls into place. "Oh," Connor exhales, startled, feeling his face heat.

"Yeah," Hank snaps, pulse spiking. "Oh."

"You're aroused," Connor observes.

Hank grimaces, Connor can feel teeth press against his skin. "Jesus Christ. Can we not fucking talk about this?"

Suddenly, it's the only thing Connor can think to discuss. "Is it me or the close proximity that turns you on?"

"Okay, so we're talking about it anyway, that's good. Peachy." Hank groans. "Fuck. Both. Stop asking questions you don't want to know the answer to."

"I want to," Connor says. It feels like he's burning, like he can't get enough air. He doesn't need to breathe. "CyberLife designed me for undercover work," he continues. "They wanted me to seem believable, so they made me as accurate as possible, down to the very last detail."

Connor knows exactly when the meaning hits; Hank lets out a choked out moan and shudders against him. "Oh, God."

Hank pulls him in and kisses him, rough and panting, nipping at Connor's lips until they're swollen and oversensitive. He can taste beer, a hint of sugar from Hank's breakfast of Boston creams. Vaguely, he's aware of the little sounds he's making against Hank's mouth, but he can't seem to stop.

Connor can feel Hank's hips twitch as he tries desperately not to rub against the knee between his thighs. Connor hasn't had enough practice for that level of self-control, grinding against Hank's dick helplessly, muffled moans spilling out from where Hank's failing to kiss him quiet. "Fuck," Hank says. "It's been too long. We won't be able to explain- well, at least, I won't- do you- can you?"

"Can I come?" Hank nods. "Yes. I don't have any refractory period, since I'm built to be as efficient as possible."

"Holy shit," Hank says. "I'm holding you to that. Later. God, I've never wanted to be on a case less. Fucking terrible timing."

"It can be our reward," Connor says. "For completing the mission."

"Jesus fuck, Connor."

* * *

They rejoin on the stairwell landing for sublevel 3. Reed looks twitchy and frustrated, fingers tapping against his jeans, hair mussed from where his hands have run through it countless times. "You guys get anything?"

"Nope," Hank says. "Nothing to report except guards."

"Fuck," Reed growls. "Us neither. Shit. It's really gotta be Hudson on this sublevel. That's a shittonne of places to hide."

"We need to be very careful," Connor says.

"No shit, Sherlock," Reed snaps. "Any other scintillating advice to add?"

"Just reminding you," Connor replies, friendly, and turns to walk down the stairs. "You have an unfortunate tendency to shoot first and ask questions later."

The stairwell sidedoor opens to a sprawling plain of construction vehicles. Excavators, steamrollers, cement mixers, bulldozers, backhoes, all in stunning condition. Most machines in this city come away with a certain level of dust and grime, usually enough to give a detailed geochemical analysis, but Hudson's are factory fresh. He's covering his tracks at every possible angle.

Centred to their left against the westmost wall is a modest-sized office, blinds shut against all-glass walls, a warm light peaking through the cracks and painting zebra striped shadows against the floor. A full three hundred and sixty degree viewpoint. "We need to get him out of the office," Connor says. "Obscure his vision."

"Yeah, and ours with it, too, asshole," Reed points out smartly.

"We'll have to rely on thermal imaging. Any weapons should generate enough heat to show up clearly on the feed."

"What's the suggested plan of action?" Richard asks. "A distraction would draw him out, but it would have to be sufficiently urgent to warrant his attention."

"I have a voice profile on one of the guards," Connor says, and watches understanding dawn on Richard's face. "But he'll know what direction to approach as soon as he hears me. You'll need to be quick in restraining him."

"Understood."

He thinks back on the warehouse, its shining floors and meticulously polished handles, and knows just what to say. "Hey, Mr. Hudson!" It's Sarah's voice he chooses, a little sheepish, a little defensive. "Uh, look, I'm really sorry, okay? I think I broke something. I just tripped, and shit- you know the machines have all these parts, and there's oil -- I think it's oil, anyway -- spilling everywhere- and don't fire me please? It's fixable. I'll clean it up myself and everything-"

"No," comes a voice. "No, you've done enough, thanks, Sarah." There's shuffling from inside, an irritated burst of breath, and Hudson appears in the doorway, haloed by lamplight. When he can't immediately see the damage, his eyes go flinty. "Where-? Shit!"

He hasn't taken the bait. He's a risk-taker, half-mad with it, he'll shoot as soon as he even suspects his operation is going south. Connor grabs Hank by the sleeve of his jacket and yanks him full-force out of the way, sending him crashing into a crane a few feet away. Bullets rip through the room seconds later, embedding themselves into the stairwell door. 9mm.

Connor aims a shot at Hudson's collarbone, enough to catch sight of his weapon of choice, an MP5 set to single shot mode -- Hudson's not panicked enough to sacrifice accuracy. The serial number registers the gun as stolen from the DPD SWAT team six months previous. His shot misses as Hudson dives behind the nearest vehicle and begins to scrabble away. Connor switches to the thermal feed.

"Jesus." Hank groans. "Knew the fucker was paranoid."

Reed's already rushing to the second exit, meters along the wall to the east. The feed places his trajectory directly perpendicular with Hudson's. "Don't let the son of a bitch go!"

"We need him cornered," Connor says. "If we get behind him, we can spread out from there."

Richard shakes his head. "Let me snipe from the crane. I was built for precision."

"Me and Connor will tail him," Hank says. "You think you can make the shot?"

Richard frowns, slight. "There's a five percent margin of error."

Hank shrugs. "I'll take those odds."

Connor takes off after Hudson's path, Hank close behind, boots clicking against the concrete. There are only two exits, and Hudson's not stupid enough to attempt the stairwell. If they back him into the north wall, he'll have nowhere to run. It should give Richard a few clear shots, enough to incapacitate. They need Hudson alive to talk; Fowler's going to get nothing from the secondary sweep.

He rounds the corner and finds Reed and Hudson grappling against the door. Reed's dropped his pistol, but he's already snapped the wrist on Hudson's non dominant hand. _No, wait,_ Connor thinks. The adrenaline alone is enough for him to wield the gun one-handed and in agonising pain. It's useless. He won't make it in time.

Hudson aims the barrel at Reed's temple, injured arm wrapped around his neck, wrist hanging useless and limp against Reed's shoulder. "Move another inch and I'll shoot your friend right in his fucking head."

Reed spits in his face. "Do it, you piece of shit!"

Connor drops his weapon. With Reed in the way, Richard can't make a clean shot. "Please, Carey. We can talk this out."

"D'you think I'm some kind of moron?" Hudson nods in Hank's direction. "You! Gun on the floor, hands on your head, or I'll splatter you with your friend's brain. Don't fucking try me."

Connor hears Hank's gun clatter. "Alright," he says. "I'm unarmed."

Hudson kicks Reed's pistol out of the way and reaims the MP5 at Hank's head. "Back away from the weapons."

There's a deafening bang, and Connor watches in slow motion as the gun drops from Hudson's hand, which is now a bleeding, mangled mess. Hudson stares at it blankly, the pain unregistered. He blinks a few times. "Wha-"

Connor charges, tackles him to the floor.

_Failure is not an option._

Hudson struggles only for a second, and then lets out a wrenched out, wretched groan when his ruined hand brushes against the material of Connor's jacket. He goes still, curls into himself, foetal. Miserable and abruptly young-looking.

Reed's shaking as he cuffs Hudson and radios in to Fowler. "We've got him, sir. We've fucking got Hudson."

_"Damn fine work. We'll send in the retrieval team now. Stay put."_

Connor hears footsteps, measured and even, too precise to be human.

"What the fuck happened to you?" Hank asks. Connor turns and is faced with Richard, rifle still in hand, covered in a fine red dust.

"I shot Hudson through a cement mixer," Richard says, brushing himself off. "This was inside. It's Red Ice."

"Oh," says Hank. " _Fuck._ "

* * *

Connor's predictions were entirely accurate. Fowler finds almost nothing of value at the warehouse, aside from the Red Ice. It's enough for drug trafficking charges, for the attempted murder of Scott Ludlow, but not for cannibalism. Not knowing the answer to that question is bothering him more than he'd like. It makes no difference legally, Hudson won't escape a lengthy sentence either way, not with a drug offence on his record, but Connor still can't shake the feeling of unease. If Deviancy gives human emotion, and human emotion drives a person to eat their own, then the DPD will be looking at android serial killers in the future. Cases he and Hank will no doubt be assigned.

It's a long road ahead.

The station's a mess when they return. Desks littered with energy drinks, officers offering their coffee cups out for a toast, boxes of celebratory doughnuts piled high, sugarcoated fingers smearing the consoles. Fowler's standing outside his office, mug in hand, surveying the damage, though he doesn't look too upset. "This is the happiest I've seen them in years," he says between sips. "I guess they finally feel like the Department's making a real difference. We have more fucking drugs than we know what to do with." He looks between the four of them, eyes warming into something that looks almost like fatherly approval. "You guys did well. Better than I expected. You played off each other's strengths and weaknesses, you worked together without any friendly fire, and you nailed down the op. I want more of this in the future, now you've proven you can do it."

"Yes, sir," they chorus. Even Hank's salute has an edge of near solemnity.

"You made good calls, all of you. I'll see you get commendations for this." Fowler sighs. "I know right now it won't seem like much of a reward. The courtcase is going to be a shitshow, especially now Hudson won't talk, and once details leak it'll be a media circus. But I want you to know I recognise you've done solid work here."

"Just doing our job, sir," says Reed. "If I can, I'd like to put in a good word for my partner." He smiles, a little guilty, at Richard's obvious shock. "He saved my life, sir. Without him I'd have screwed up apprehending the suspect."

Fowler nods. "He's growing on you, too, huh?"

"Like fungus."

This gets a snort. "I'll see that neither of you get reassigned. Good work, rookie. I know Reed's been antagonising you," Fowler says. "I'll let you four recover. Rest of the day off. It's gonna be out of the frying pan and into the fire for you when you get back." He pats them all on the back and says, "Keep it up," before returning to his work.

There's a moment of silence, and then, "You put in a good word for me. Thank you."

"Yeah, well, you saved my life. Who else is gonna take care of Jonny, y'know?" Reed shrugs. "He's an awful little shit to everyone. I'm the only one he tolerates, and that's on a good day."

Richard laughs. It's more restrained than Connor's, which he'll fully admit is a little goofy, a little unchecked. He hadn't expected he'd ever need to laugh, not genuinely. "Who else will play obnoxious EDM first thing in the morning and ask me for coffee after calling me a dick?"

Reed winces, rubs a hand behind his neck. Connor's never seen actual, heartfelt regret on him, not once. "Sorry about that. I still think Richard is a shitty name, though. You need a new one. Something better, cooler. What about... Nines?"

"Nines?" Richard hums, a slow, amused smile spreading accross his features. "I like it."

Reed slings an arm around his shoulders. "Well, Nines, how about I introduce you to the actual fucking artistry that is Hybrid Trap?"

Richard sighs, but allows himself to be carted off towards their desks anyway. "You're lucky I don't have eardrums to break, Gavin."

Hank lays a hand on Connor's shoulder as they watch the Department -- their friends -- celebrate for the first time in a long, long time. There's a look of warm contentment on Hank that Connor's only seen once before -- during their hug at Chicken Feed. "Finally, rest for the wicked," he says, stretching and yawning, catlike. "Wanna head home?"

 _Home._  Their home. "Sure," Connor says. "I'd like that."

"Great." Hank grins. "You did good, y'know that?"

"No," says Connor, and smiles back. " _We_  did good, Hank."


End file.
